Many years ago I was asked to recite this poem in school. The sounds of the words falling from the lips are as haunting as the poem itself. I can recall it still by memory. If one knows the language at all they'll appreciate it unaltered.

La Mort des Oiseaux - François Coppée

Le soir, au coin du feu, j'ai pensé bien des fois,
A la mort d'un oiseau, quelque part, dans les bois,
Pendant les tristes jours de l'hiver monotone
Les pauvres nids déserts, les nids qu'on abandonne,

Se balancent au vent sur le ciel gris de fer.
Oh ! comme les oiseaux doivent mourir l'hiver !
Pourtant lorsque viendra le temps des violettes,
Nous ne trouverons pas leurs délicats squelettes.

Dans le gazon d'avril où nous irons courir.
Est-ce que " les oiseaux se cachent pour mourir ? "

"The Rainy Day"

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Here is something a bit lighter.....

The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon

There is an inn, a merry old inn
beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down
one night to drink his fill.

The ostler has a tipsy cat
that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he saws his bow
Now squeaking high, now purring low,
now sawing in the middle.

The landlord keeps a little dog
that is mighty fond of jokes;
When there's good cheer among the guests,
He cocks an ear at all the jests
and laughs until he chokes.

They also keep a hornéd cow
as proud as any queen;
But music turns her head like ale,
And makes her wave her tufted tail
and dance upon the green.

And O! the rows of silver dishes
and the store of silver spoons!
For Sunday there's a special pair,
And these they polish up with care
on Saturday afternoons.

The Man in the Moon was drinking deep,
and the cat began to wail;
A dish and a spoon on the table danced,
The cow in the garden madly pranced
and the little dog chased his tail.

The Man in the Moon took another mug,
and then rolled beneath his chair;
And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,
Till in the sky the stars were pale,
and dawn was in the air.

Then the ostler said to his tipsy cat:
'The white horses of the Moon,
They neigh and champ their silver bits;
But their master's been and drowned his wits,
and the Sun'll be rising soon!'

So the cat on the fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,
a jig that would wake the dead:
He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,
While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:
'It's after three!' he said.

They rolled the Man slowly up the hill
and bundled him into the Moon,
While his horses galloped up in rear,
And the cow came capering like a deer,
and a dish ran up with the spoon.

Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;
the dog began to roar,
The cow and the horses stood on their heads;
The guests all bounded from their beds
and danced upon the floor.

With a ping and a pang the fiddle-strings broke!
the cow jumped over the Moon,
And the little dog laughed to see such fun,
And the Saturday dish went off at a run
with the silver Sunday spoon.

The round Moon rolled behind the hill,
as the Sun raised up her head.
She* hardly believed her fiery eyes;
For though it was day, to her surprise
they all went back to bed!

-- J. R. R. Tolkien

Here is a link that might be useful: Source

This would be too long. Robert Service, The Men that don't fit in. 4th verse
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance.
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! he is one of the Legion lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.

of all poems, this is the one i can (and do) recite by heart.

The Owl and the Pussycat - Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
in a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey and plenty of money,
wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
and sang to a small guitar,
Oh lovely pussy, Oh pussy my love,
What a beautiful pussy you are,
You are, you are, what a beautiful pussy you are.

Pussy said to the Owl - you elegant fowl
how charmingly sweet you sing.
Oh let us be married too long we have tarried
but what shall we do for a ring?
So they sailed away for a year and a day
to the land where the bong-tree grows.
And there in a wood a piggy-wig stood
with a ring at the end of his nose,
his nose, his nose, with a ring at the end of his nose.

Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
your ring, said Piggy, I will.
So they took it away and were married next day
by the turkey who lives on the hill.
And they dined on mince, and slices of quince,
which they ate with a runcible spoon.
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand
they danced by the light of the moon,
the moon, the moon, they danced by the light of the moon.

The Double Life

By Don Blanding

How very simple life would be
If only there were two of me
A Restless Me to drift and roam
A Quiet Me to stay at home.
A Searching One to find his fill
Of varied skies and newfound thrill
While sane and homely things are done
By the domestic Other One.

And that just where the trouble lies;
There is a Restless Me that cries
For chancy risks and changing scene,
For artic blue and tropic green,
For deserts with their mystic spell
For lusty fun and raising Hell
But shackled to that Restless Me
My Other Self rebelliously
Resists the frantic urge to move.

It seeks the old familiar groove
That habits make. It finds content
With hearth and home--dear prisonment,
With candlelight and well-loved books
And treasured loot in dusty nooks,

With puttering and gardening things
And dreaming while a cricket sings
And all the while the Restless One
Insists on more exicting fun,
It wants to go with every tide,
No matter where... just for the ride.
Like yowling cats the two Selves brawl
Until I have no piece at all.
One eye turns to the forward tack,
The other eye looks sadly back.
I'm getting wall-eyed from the strain,
(It's tough to have an idle brain)
But One says "Stay" and One says "Go"
And One says "Yes" and One says "No"
And One Self wants a home and wife
And One Self craves the drifter's life.

The Restless One always wins
I wish my folks had made me twins.

Always have a dream.

Forget about the days when its been cloudy,

but donÂt forget your hours in the sun.

Forget about the times youÂve been defeated

but donÂt forget the victories youÂve won

Forget about mistakes that you cant change now

but donÂt forget the lessons that youÂve learned

Forget about misfortunes you encounter

but donÂt forget the times your luck has turned.

Forget about the days when youÂve been lonely

but donÂt forget the friendly smiles youÂve seen

Forget about the plans that didnÂt seem to work out right

but donÂt forget to always have a dream .

Author Amanda Bradley

Tonight, in the corner by the fire I remember well of the time,
At the death of a bird, sometime in the past, in the woods,
During the sad, colorless days of winter,
The empty nests, the abandonned nests,
Balanced on the wind, against the iron cold sky.

Oh! Must the birds die in every winter?
However, when in spring the violets come,
We never find their delicate bones
In green grass of April where we run bare foot.

Do the birds hide before dying?

*****

Loosely translated by little ole' me.

I like both this poem and dried apple pies.

DRIED APPLE PIES
Author Unknown

I loathe, abhor, detest, despise,
Abominate dried-apple pies,
I like good bread, I like good meat,
Or anything that's fit to eat;

But of all poor grub beneath the skies,
The poorest is dried apple pies.
Give me the toothache, or sore eyes,
But don't give me dried apple pies.

The farmer takes his gnarliest fruit,
'Tis wormy, bitter, and hard, to boot;
He leaves the hulls to make us cough,
And don't take half the peeling off.

Then on a dirty cord 'tis strung
And in a garret window hung,
And there it serves as roost for flies,
Until it's made up into pies.

Tread on my corns, or tell me lies,
But don't pass me dried-apple pies.

Odes, Book 3, Verse 29: Happy the Man

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

-- Horace

Cat Haiku

Oh, good, you're home. I celebrate joyously with an amusing ear twitch.

Deborah Coates